Hero Time!
by kheelwithit
Summary: Alfred F. Jones has a show on the radio. Because of it, himself and people around him (some of which don't even know his name) are on the lam. Matthew Williams blames himself. Part One :: Hook :: Chapter 1 :: Casting Off.
1. Casting Off

Hero Time

Part one :: Hook

Chapter One :: Casting Off.

March 18 :: 15.32

Matthew Williams has been stuck up here for three days. He closes the curtains and helps himself to another Maruchan cup. He briefly, and with no small amount of sarcasm, wonders how long it will be until he has to ration food.

Four days. That's exactly how long. And a whole_ six hours_ is how long it will take for Safeway to deliver his delivery taxes are a drag and he can't wait to get his new roommate. His stomach grumbles and he wonders if he's being ridiculous, if there's nothing but nothing for him to worry about. He opens the window. There's' a black van out front and across the street from his apartment complex, sitting surreptitiously like it has been for the past week. Worst of all, he swears that there was a flash of flesh toned color before black curtains swooshed over the van's window.

Matthew Williams now fears that his fears are perfectly justified. Because something doesn't fit. His mother always told him to listen to his gut. He closes his own curtains and sits down with a stack of pancakes to finish his book and listen to the radio. His face blanches when he hears the happy-go-lucky voice speaking.

He blames himself for this.

March 22 :: 6.12

Alfred F. Jones has **not **been stuck in a tiny apartment for 7 days and six hours. Alfred F. Jones has been **partying** for 6 hours. He's seen more losses in beer pong battle today than veterans have seen losses in Vietnam. He's also probably high. Some Asian gal brought brownies that were spiked with something that makes his world feel lucid and hella smooth. But who cares? It's spring break and he's in college and everything's good in life. For now. In the morning, he's probably going to wake up hurling over some chick's tits.

He didn't. It was a girl's **backside**. That was ok too, because Al's more of an ass guy anyway. It stopped being ok when the pretty gal had the gall to be a guy. A really fuckin' pretty one. But in his defense, whatever happened last night, happened under the influence of beer goggles. Intense ones. He shoves himself off of her and onto a spare cushion on the floor and presses is face in closer- his face is sticky. He sits up lightning quick and wipes at his face and oh god, no no **no** don't let it be that- its white and smelly. He hurls again.

Fast-forward three hours and Alfred is banging on the door of his history Professor. Unprofessional, he knows, but he's tired and high, and his mom is going to **kill him** if he comes home like this and he's not safe enough to drive and all his friends are gone and holy shi- he vomits off the stairwell. He collapses against the doorway, whacking his head on the door in a mixture of lazy knocking and punishing himself because last time he got this fucked up he swore to **God almighty** that he never would again. He's been sitting there for about 23 head-bashing knocks when he hears 'click, swip, click, clank, clock, swip, click, click' It takes him a second to realize that those must have been fucking **locks on the door.** He never pegged his Professor to be the type. He tries to hold himself up on his own when the door opens, but he's not quite on time enough to do it and collapses into the door way.

"Hhhnghmph,"

Alfred F. Jones **wants **to say that he'll never do this again, but he's 21, it's spring break and he's a college student. As he's hauled by the collar into the house, he figures it'd just be best for life to take it's course, and for him to follow.

March 22 :: 7.25

Lovino Vargas has been listening to this damn radio show all semester. He hates it, but every morning when he drives to the library, his hands magically move to the radio and his fingers automatically click to the right channel. It's not his fault. Really. He does have to admire that boy's spunk though. It's either that or that kid just genuinely does not give_one single solitary fuck_ for what might happen. Lovino awaits the day that he opens up the paper behind the library counter to find an article titled-

**'College Student Found Dead From Two Shotgun Wounds to Cranium - Suicide Suspected'**

It's wrong, he knows, but really? Does he expect to ever get anywhere with talk like that? Lovino Vargas' father taught him one thing. If something doesn't fit, don't say a mother fucking word. Mafia policy. Really, the first thing that anybody learned when they were talking about shit like that (or any sensitive information, for that matter) was not to blab to strangers. And this kid wasn't just blabbing either. He was broadcasting across the _state_. Giving sources and sites and books to look up all the right information. Eventually, someone was going to shut him up. It was inevitable. He clicks off the radio.

He pulls up into the parking lot. Something doesn't fit. There's a black van in the front. With a man looking at him from behind the window. Lovino slides his Gucci sunglasses over his eyes and doesn't say a_ mother fucking word. _

He knows exactly what brought them here. He opens the library door shuts all of the blinds and immediately rushes behind his desk, clicking through security tapes to find what he needs. He pauses the tape. Grabs the phone. 011398154211213. It's a long number, but he taps it in the corded wall phone with rhythmic ease. He does it often.

"Gevanni, quanto tempo necessario per trovare qualcuno?"

March 21 :: 7.20

Elizaveta Herdervary has run a maid café called Dolce for two years and nine months. It is the ultimate maid café. She's been all over Japan and hasn't seen one that tops it. They have an amazing French pastry chef, a cute Italian dojikko barista, and maids of every gender and rampant yaoi and yuri potential. But it comes at a cost. She adores running it, really she does, but she's always forced to be moving. She's got to greet customers, repair uniforms, make menus, create specials, do finances, help clean up, teach the maids the art of Maid-Fu (also known as defending yourself against sexual predators) and help out with serving herself. It leaves very little time to do what she actually went to college for. Journalism. And it's a terrible tragedy because she was the best in her class. Now she only gets a story in about once a month.

But it could be worse. She can still pay the bills. A few years ago, she couldn't even say that. She runs an order for café au lait and a sweet roll to table three. The man is quiet, and gives her the most endearing look of total enchantment. Elizaveta can see him take in every ounce of her. The ruffles on her cap, the boots that she wears (because proper maids aren't supposed to wear those harlot-heels) and her perfectly ironed apron. She's perfect, and she knows that he knows that she knows it. She cocks her head in a well practiced manner, making sure her brown curls bounce _just so_.

"Is there something on my face, Shujin-sama?"

It's funny to see his face go so red and Eliza remembers why she loves her job again. He nods no, and watches her bow before she flounces off to her office. She could use a break. She opens up word and consults her notes before she starts again.

That boy on the radio made interesting points and even if this was probably never going to see the light of day except for some forums, Elizaveta Herdervary could have fun writing it.

March 21 :: 7.20

Kiku Honda is on leave for eight days not counting today. If he had a little longer, he might have been able to fall in love. She was perfect in every way. Perfect posture, polite, quiet, respectful, and oh_ so_ _beautiful. _And the fire in her eyes made Kiku want to... well he didn't know quite yet. And he wasn't going to. Because Kiku Hondas aren't supposed to fall in love. They're supposed to go to lunch, stay in town for a few days, and then leave again on deployment. Being him is a sad lifestyle. He chews his meal and respectfully pays and goes. He notices a van has very cruelly parallel parked him (which is illegal, he should call the police) and briefly debates exactly how long it would take for the owner to come back out. He doesn't want to have to go back into the shop to find whoever owns the black van, because if he does, he might be tempted to ask the-never-going-to-but-could-have-been love of his life out to dinner. And that would end in tears for him. He shifts anxiously from side to side, glancing at the door for a period of time. There's a thump. It's coming from the van. Kiku isn't sure if he should be relived that he doesn't have to go inside, or miffed because the person didn't even bother to un-park himself so that Kiku _could_ leave, even though he was _right there._ It doesn't matter though, because he's already knocking and the window is being rolled down. He can see all of the whirring machines and boards of buttons and glowing screens and the heads of three other people inside.

And suddenly, Kiku Honda doesn't care about his car anymore. He needs to get the out of here. Now.

He sprints down the road with all of the speed of a man whose been through a marine's basic training and he doesn't stop 'till he's halfway to the highway and there isn't a single black _car_ let alone van. And then he laughs. After three years he should have known he got off scot free. He goes back to the shop after the lights go out and the black van pulls away, following after a beat up Prius. He clicks on the radio and revs up his Audi.

Now that's certainly a voice he hasn't heard in a while. Kiku Honda only has eight days of leave, but he thinks that he can spare a day or two to visit a friend.

What do all parties have in common?

Hero Time.

AN ::

"Gevanni, quanto tempo necessario per trovare qualcuno?"

"Gevanni, how long will it take you to find someone?"

Dojikko are a clumsy type of girl.


	2. Bait Ball Pt 1

Hero Time!

Part 1 :: Hook.

Chapter 2 :: Bait Ball Spotted. or. Snap and Self-Discipline.

Matthew Williams hasn't stopped blaming himself for this. He's pushing his blonde hair back, tying it up with a scrunchie, pulling it out, clenching his fingers in it because no _no_ _**no**_. He does _not _need this. His _student _is currently lying face down on his carpet shivering and probably passed out from partying, there's a big black suspicious van filled with shady people outside of his house and his groceries still _aren't here. _He's pacing again. He stops and snaps a rubber band against his skin. No pacing. The minimal pain realigns priorities for him. First, take care of Alfred - _snap. _Right, professionalism. Mister Jones. Clean him up, get groceries, see about teaching online, find out what the hell to do about vans. There. That's a plan. One he can stick to.

"Up you go, kiddo,"

"Mmmphramphsmtthewcold"

"...Sure, whatever,"

Matthew's hefting up the much heavier student up and into the bathroom much like a murderer drags a dead body. He could have carried him side by side, and he tried, but that way's just no good, because even though Jones is _not passed out _(That little fuck had the _audacity _to reach for Matthew's pancakes before he swatted his hand away.) he's not helping one smidgeon. He actually has to pick the boy up behind the knees and set him on the toilette seat. Matthew Williams does not need this right now. He almost reaches for the hair brushing his shoulders again. No, focus. He snorts a sigh and reaches for the medicine cabinet under the sink. Spare toothbrush, towel, spare pajamas, methadone tablets. Anyone who looked at the contents of his cabinet would be able to tell he did this a bit too often. He speaks to his patient soft and soothing and slow. Kid's probably got a killer headache.

"Hey, Jones. You 'member me, right? It's Professor Williams. I'm going to help you, but you've got to chin up for me, okay?" He's immediately scouting out signs of a high. If Jones is coming down, he needs that little white tablet now. He doesn't look like he's been hooked for a while and Matthew is shoving both of his sleeves up and pulling off the kid's jacket. (A very vintage bomber, what, did this kid do costumes?) Jones fights to keep it, and without it, he starts shivering more than he was before. He lets him keep it, but bunches the sleeves up as much as he can. There are no needle marks. Incredibly sleepy eyed, he is. Even when all his attention is currently focused on Matthew, the barest hint of sky is found underneath lids that are 7/8 of the way shut, but he has constricted pupils. And he's panting a mile a minute, chest heaving under a white tee shirt covered in glitter and vomit. Matthew is pretty damn sure of what's going on here, but just to make sure..

"Okay, buddy, open up for me, eh?" And he does. His breath smells like hell and beer and sexual-activities-wherein-he-swallowed and fudge brownies. Matthew's nose doesn't particularly like it. But he perseveres. He hisses and stands up to lean over by the sink and was his hands. They're already clean, of course. He's a very sanitary person by nature. But he's sure Jones'd like to know that his fingers were clean for sure. In the _twenty seconds_ that he's gone, the kid has drifted back off. Matthew snaps. Alfred -_snap- _Jones snaps to attention, and then relaxes against the back of the toilette. Squatting in front of him, Matthew takes firm hold of Jones' jaw, urging it downward.

"and no biting," He slides a digit in, swabbing along the tongue, underneath, that little spot at the back of your mouth that makes saliva spray like a fountain. It's dry. He's high. And then Matthew's done. And his position hits him. This looks _incredibly_ lewd. He's kneeling between a boy's legs, whose panting and gripping at the toilette cover and shaking periodically and leaning back with lidded eyes and staring at Matthew in the most unintentionally provocative gesture that he's ever seen while he has his **Professor's fingers in his mouth**.

_Snap._

He slips his fingers out with his eyes on a little spot on the rug beneath his feet.

"Alrighty, then kiddo. You were _definitely_ sky high," Jones cocks his head to the side and back, eyes widened a bit and lips in a sarcastic grin. It generally conveys the idea of an 'oh really?' chock loaded with a week's worth of sarcasm.

"on Black Tar_ Heroin_. Congratulations," And then it's a different kind of 'oh really'. The doorbell rings and Matthew presses the little white bottle of methadone pills into Jones' hand.

"These're anti-addiction pills. They'll give you an easier time coming down, one and _only _one," A cautionary look before he goes to get what he hopes is groceries instead of inhabitants of Blackvantopia. He checks behind olive green curtains. No black suits or glasses. Just a couple of guys in Safeway employee shirts. He unlocks the door; _'click swip click clank clock swip click click_'. He peers behind the uniformed and bezitted employees, his eyes on the van as he pays them, mumbling his thanks. When he sees a silhouette of a face flash behind the tinted windows, it takes him all of sixty seconds to heft in eight red milk crates of stuff into his house. And then he locks it again even quicker; '_clickswipclickclankclockswipclickclik_'. He feels again like he's escaped something dreadful. Jones is leaning against the doorway staring at him - who is leaning against the door- and the crates of groceries. He moves to help put them away, Matthew supposes.

"Don't worry about it, Jones. Go take a shower, call someone 'n tell them where you're at, ok? I'll make you something to eat, eh?"

In reality, Alfred F. Jones looks sleepy and mildly disgusted at having to eat, but all Matthew can see is Jones' mouth wrapped around his fingers again, squirming because his other hand is palming his crotch and sleepy eyed because of lust. Jones shuffles to the shower, hand on the wall to keep himself steady. Matthew bangs his head against the door and groans. He really just does not need this.

_Snap._

"Three weeks overdue and damaged with... cafe? On page 394. You owe a fee of ten dollars for every week and th' original cost of the book. Which totals at eighty three and seventy nine, I'm gonna assume you read the f-," Lovino pauses, the old man in front of his desk probably couldn't take it if he cursed in front of him. He'd keel over. And then croak on his brand-goddamn-new carpet.

"fucking terms and conditions when you made a library card," And that's okay. Lovino has men for that. The man's face is turning an interesting color of purple and Vargas can tell he's gonna have a hard time with this one. And then the color leaves and a slick smile slides into place on the dark skinned man's face. He can even see a golden tooth gleaming in his library's tastefully done lighting. Something here is wrong. He cocks an eyebrow and readjusts himself in the large armchair he's sitting in. If anything goes wrong, Lovino can take this bastardo. No problem. Worst case scenario, his men upstairs know exactly where he is, and exactly where to aim.

"_I" _It's just the _way _he says it that makes Lovino stop taking him seriously, he's flipping his long dreadlocks over his shoulder and raising both eyebrows in challenge to his one.

"Am a Sovereign Citizen. Do you even _know_ what that is?" He can fuckin' _hear _the capitals in the words.

"I know. Then you'll be claiming your position as sovereign and sayin' that you don' gotta pay, right?" Lovino waves him off 'cause he already knows the answer.

"_I"_ He mocks the man a hand splayed over his chest as he leans forward.

"Am also a sovereign citizen. And this is my _private _ you handed over your driver's license to agree to my terms and conditions, you made an accord with me in _common law_ to return my books to me on time an' in the same condition that they left, else pay the _**fuckin'**_ fees. If you refuse to pay, I can and will take you to court for theft, and defacing private property of another private citizen," He's maintained exceptional control of his temper, slipping to shouting only once. He tilts his head further back in the chair, crosses his arms and props up his classy leather shoes on the desk._ Right _in front of Mr. _Sovereign Citizen,_ and the cherry on top, a fuckin' carbon copy of that supercilious look that had just been directed at him. Only Lovino Vargas wore it so. Much. Better.

Hmmm. Lovino had only been half joking when he had thought that this old geezer would keel over, but _now_... the thought comes back with a little more sobriety. The geezer grumbles and huffs and puffs and eventually, Lovino gets sick of looking at him do it.

"So it's either pay, or be sued. Fuckin' choose and get outta my library, stronzo," The man straightens out his clothes, wearing a cheap _yellow _Ralph Lauren Polo, a black pleather jacket and khakis with a pair of Adidas and a Kangol flat cap, pays and then he walks out the door. And when he does, Lovino Vargas is forced to reassess the level of threat that this man poses. Because the man knocks on the door to the black van. And they roll the window down, and they speak, and that greasy ass bastardo grins, and he leaves the parking lot.

Cazzo. When God made that man, he broke the mold only because he didn't want another like him on this earth. People like him were the reason he couldn't be taken seriously. They find out about one single trick an' think it makes them better than God. If he had it his way, you'd have to get a _degree _to declare yourself any sort of non-public thoughts drift back to the van outside. Why did it have to be _his _Library for chrissakes. Lovino Vargas is gonna have 'ta be hella careful from now on. And then something good happens, Gevanni calls him back.

"Mi dia le boune notizie, Gevanni,"

_"Si, Si. L'e adress e 231 Douglass viale, Providence, RI" _

Batti el ferro fince el caldo.

Lovino Vargas leaps over the desk, shouts for his men to keep up shop, sprints past the van, slides into his Alfa Romero lightning quick, and is off to business even before he can hang up the phone on Gevanni.

Kiku Hondas really aren't supposed to fall in love. It's best for everyone around. But he's doing it anyway. He thinks she owns it, the café. He doesn't know for sure because he's still sitting in his car and looking at it. It's very... suiting of her. The sign over the shop is in wide font. It's not luminescent, but in plain spring green thin letters - e, it says. There's a blackboard sandwich sign in front of a well manicured set of bushes that line up directly over pretty French windows and he can see her, apron and hair tie the same green as her sign to distinguish her as Head Maid. She's chastising the bar man, who's cleaning up spilled milk while onlookers chuckle and blush. He normally has impeccable self control, but he doesn't at all feel like he's the one making commands when he pushes the door open, a little bell sounding his appearance. She isn't the one to greet him -a terrible shame- instead, a little blonde girl with a purple ribbon in her hair. She's small enough to be a loli, with a small chest emphasized by an under bust vest and he has a new respect for the owner. She knows what she's doing, emphasizing certain appeals. He can see oppai girls with tighter shirts, megane girls with hair swept back, shotas that wore shorts and vests -

"Okairinasaimase, goshujin-sama," He digresses. She bows politely with a tray in her arms and waves him to a booth at the front left side of the shop. The menu is placed in front of him, perfectly straight.

"Please notify a maid when you'd like to order, goshujin-sama," The words are very quiet. Kiku identifies her as pettanko loli; subset; shy. He shakes his head yes and she shuffles off to wait and greet another customer while he observes the work of art he sits in. One of the shotas is acting superior, another laughing at him and sliding into a customer's lap (Are they old enough to work here?) nonchalantly swinging his legs. A busty blonde with short hair is putting frosting on a pastry while the coarse man who she's hosting is too busy staring at her chest to notice. The barista is wooing an office lady type who is red and flushing deeper still when he takes hold of her hand and presses a piece o f paper into it. But he doesn't see _her. _Which is horrible and sad because he wanted her to serve him. Sit in his lap, put frosting on his pastry and press pieces of paper into his palm. He huffs and puts his hands in his lap. He's not supposed to be fraternizing with pretty shopkeepers. He's only got eight days and-

She's here.

She's just exited the kitchen, with a smile to the barista as she takes a tray of drinks and walks around, passing them out and smiling and he's nothing short of dazzled because there's a bit of flour on her apron and on the tips of her hair and she's walking towards him and now he can't look anymore before he really _does _fall in love.

"Welcome back, goshujin-sama, may I be of assistance this morning?"

He can tell this is going to be an uphill battle.

"Y-yes, please. Milk tea and..." He really aught to have looked at the menu. She just laughs and takes a pen and notepad from her apron pocket.

"Would you like me to make a suggestion?" Kiku nods sheepishly, nibbling at his lower lip.

"Don't worry, goshujin-sama, I'm here to help. May I suggest the Baklava or Dobosh Torte?" Kiku has heard of baklava several times and sampled it a few. He finds he doesn't care for it,

"What is the torte made of?" he peers upward from under his hair and she's still looking at him. He ducks his head back down.

"Seven thin layers of fluffy cake separated by house made buttercream frosting and caramel topping, customers say it's one of the best things here"

"That's fine," She nods and bows and sweeps away.

"C-chotto!" He lifts his hand in weak protest and she spins around on brown boots, He thinks it wise to ask before anything bad happens.

"Will you be back to serve me?" She rolls her eyes and nods. And then she leaves for his order. Honda reflects on the stupidity of the question for a moment. And then he goes back to watching, On the curb, there's a black van again. He certainly feels bad for whoever is being watched.

When she comes back, she practically reads his heart and slides into the booth beside him with a slice of cake herself. He walks away from the shop two hours with a blush and a smile and an invitation for a meal on the house.


End file.
